My Belly, Part One

The first time I became aware that I was "fat" was on the playground in first grade. Some kid came up to me and said something like, "I know why you and Kenny play together all the time: 'cause you're both fat!" Kenny was a kid who lived in my neighborhood. We rode bikes together and killed snails and ate snacks at his house after school. His mother would make us cinnamon toast and Tang (the beverage of the astronauts!) The revelation that I was fat had never consciously occurred to me before, but it doesn't strike me as surprising that my fatness was first named by another person. It does seem from that moment onward, my body image was sculpted by many an "other," whether it was a kid on the playground, a TV show, a movie, various doctors, fatphobia in the cultural ether, or, not insignificantly, my mom. I'll share more about my mom and fatness in another post.

For now, let's turn our attention to my belly. The belly that, in first grade, wasn't all that big, but over the years, and particularly by my senior year of high school, began to protrude and spill over my middle section thanks to weight gain and gravity. I'd had chicken pox over the summer of 1989, and a scar remained on my stomach to the left of my belly button. Later that year, the scar began to blur and dimple: the origin point of my first stretch mark, and with it, a deeper hatred of my body(self.)

It is a curious thing, growing up fat. No one notices you and yet everyone notices you. Particularly in the heteronormative realm of the sexual or romantic: the boys I'd had crushes on in junior high and high school were nice boys; they just thought of me as "one of the guys." It may have had something to do with my gender presentation, having been a tomboy, but I think the real reason was 'cause of the belly: this large, lumbering body that seemed, for all its obviousness, to be invisible.

The Daily Grind

Hi friends. I haven't been able to blog so much since school started back up. I'd love to regale you with stories of my wacky adventures, but things have been decidedly unwacky lately. This is pretty much the routine:

Mondays - I leave at 8:45am for the clinic, where I've got a 10:00am process group (kinda like group therapy with the other interns), a clinic staff meeting at noon, and see clients in the afternoon. Then I come home and do school work.

Tuesdays - School work until I leave for class at about 2:30pm; the bike-and-BART commute to Alameda takes about 1.25 hours; then I'm in class til 10:00pm; then I arrive home at about 11:15-11:30pm.

Wednesdays - Clinic - 10:00am didactic training; 1:00pm group supervision; individual clients until 6:00pm; facilitate the grief therapy group til 8:00pm; home by about 9:30pm.

Thursdays - School work; personal therapy at noon; more school work; commute; class 4-10pm; commute; home 'round 11:30pm.

Fridays - Leave for 9:00am individual supervision by 7:45am; clients at the clinic from 11:00 to 4:00pm; do paperwork; home by about 5:30pm.

This morning when Astrid woke up for work, she kissed me and said something like, "See you in several days." The thing that's most sucky about my schedule, apart from the hella annoying commute to my new school, is that Mondays and Fridays are the only weekdays I'm actually home for dinner. Astrid and I pretty much just see each other at bedtime Tuesdays through Thursdays. Thankfully, now that we're back to class, the end is actually in sight. Come August, I might have a life again.

Kisses,
Bree